Title: Before The Burn

Title: Before The Burn
Warning: none- no spoilers if you've seen the pilot.
Genre: Drama/Spy stuff
Rating: PG-13 (ish)
Word count: 9562
Characters: Michael, Fiona, Sam, Lucy & a bunch of OCs

Author's Note: After discovering this show and falling in love with it I kinda started to wonder what happened to Michael before the Burn came. Like why does he refuse to commit to Fiona, or anything else for that matter. What happened to him that made him so isolated? This is what I figured out.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters of Burn Notice, if I did I'd be a freaking happy girl wouldn't I? Don't bother suing me, I've got less than a burned spy does.

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The thumping rhythm from the party going on outside matched the throbbing of his headache. If he hadn't been so desperate to lay down for a while and try to put all of the chaos together, he would have passed this hotel up. But, after all, it was good cover. He'd been trying for three days to figure out what had happened and why anyone would want to burn him. No warning, no explanation, no 'thanks for all your hard work'. Nothing. Just dumped here in what seemed like hell on Earth. Of all the crappy places on this planet they could have dumped him, they had to pick the town he'd started in.

He'd been seventeen when he left for the Army. Never looked back. Hell, he'd left everything behind he was so eager to get away. Maybe if his dad hadn't been such a bastard it would have been different. But the old man was a bastard, perhaps the king of them, and he'd done everything in his power to make his son feel like dog shit on his shoe. Between the yelling, the nasty words and the occasional fist to the head, it hadn't been a hard choice. The only thing hard about it had been explaining why he was leaving to Nate.

Part of the deal with the recruiter was that he wanted to be as far away from Miami as he could be. So he hopped a bus going west and found himself at the gates of Fort Sill with a grin on his face and high hopes for his future. What he didn't predict was that he would be really good at what the Army taught him. So good, that he was recommended for Special Forces. It was no question that he would be accepted into the program, he was a better shot, and more importantly, a better thinker, than most of the other soldiers around him. He found the process of learning what the tactical officers had to show him refreshing and he excelled beyond his fellow trainees.

Then he came to the attention of the people behind the scenes, black ops departments that didn't exist on paper. The liked what they saw in this brilliant young man and they grabbed him up with glee. Then his real career began, spying for his country. Little by little he was let in on the secrets that kept the government afloat or, alternately, could sink the country if they got into the wrong hands. And he did his part to retain those secrets and barter knowledge to the highest bidder.

For a long time they kept him on a short leash, only letting him out with other, more experienced operatives. They taught him the tricks of the trade and he learned them eagerly. Then he began using his own tricks and dazzling his handlers. Eventually they allowed him to go out on his own and the results he got were enough to convince the handlers that they'd made the right choice. So he found himself off in parts of the world he'd never even seen on a map, spying and gathering information for his country.

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He sat at a café in one of the older sections of Anakara waiting for his contact to show up. He'd learned that much of his job was spent waiting. So he used the time to enjoy the strong coffee and learn more about the country he was in. He'd spent so much time in cafes just like this waiting for contacts that he'd been able to read up on most of the Asian countries that he could possibly be sent to and he now knew three additional languages on top of what Special Forces had taught him. He was flipping through a guidebook for China when out of the blue fate hit him.

Fate, in this case, looked like a woman on a bicycle, and he wasn't aware at the time that she was fate, but that didn't matter. What did matter was the fact that she'd just been hit by a truck flying around the corner, and was now lying sprawled in the middle of the street. Mike jumped up and ran to her side, asking in several languages if she was all right. She sputtered and waved him off rising from the ground and attempting to right her bicycle.

"Bastard!" the woman shouted in accented English waving her fist in the direction of the truck which was now long gone.

Mike chuckled at the American curse that came from her. She was obviously of Middle Eastern descent, her dark olive skin was marred on her arm where she'd scraped it on the pavement and now blood was welling up in the wound. "You really should wash that off," he said as he guided her off the street and towards his table at the café.

She spun on her heel and finally took a good look at the man that had come to her rescue, not that she'd needed it. "I'm fine. Thank you." Mike had already dipped a napkin in the glass of water on the table and was now carefully dabbing at her arm. "Ow! Watch it."

His smile got wider and she could see that he was quite handsome. "Sorry." He didn't stop cleaning the wound but he did pay more attention to the woman in front of him. She was stunningly beautiful, blue black hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and delicate features that would obviously remain this pretty long into her golden years. She wasn't terribly tall, maybe five foot seven, but her presence was enough to more than make up for it. He could immediately tell that she was the type of woman that would be the center of attention without any effort. And then he saw her eyes, deep and rich brown with golden flecks around the outside. Something about the way her eyes met his made him tingle in ways he hadn't since puberty hit.

"Thank you, really," the woman said, once more trying to brush his hand aside.

"Okay, just trying to help. You need to have that looked at you know." He pointed down at her arm, which was still bleeding enough that it might require stitches.

When she looked down she blinked for a moment before her eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted. He wasn't expecting that but he lunged forward to grab her before she hit the table and did more damage to her self. He cradled her in his arms and pulled her into his lap as her weight drove him to the sidewalk. "Someone get me a towel and some ice will you?" When no one moved he repeated the request in Turkish and the waiter hurried off towards the main door of the café. The rest of the onlookers returned their attention to whatever they'd been doing before the incident and left Mike alone with the unconscious woman. The waiter returned and pitched the towel and a glass of ice on the table and hurried off like he didn't want to be scolded for letting someone get hurt near the restaurant.

Mike rolled his eyes at the young man and reached for the towel. He dipped it in the water and dabbed it on her forehead for a minute. When she still didn't revive he pulled an ice cube from the glass and moved her hair aside to place it on the back of her neck. When she finally came back around she jerked up from the cold on her skin and nearly collided with his forehead. "Whoa, take it easy." He smiled warmly at her to try to put her at ease. Even though he was rather tan, he was still noticeably American and lots of people in these parts really didn't like Americans.

"What happened?"

"Well, I'm not a doctor but I'd say you fainted. You don't like the sight of blood do you?" The woman shook her head and he could see the fear in her eyes. He opened the towel he'd been dabbing at her head with and laid it over her arm so she wouldn't faint again. "You feeling up to sitting up?"

She obviously didn't know where she was because she glanced around before grinning up at him. "Perhaps I should. I'm sorry for troubling you."

He helped her stand and then motioned for her to have a seat in the chair beside his at the table. "It's not a trouble, happy to help. But let me at least clean your arm up a little before you run off okay?"

She nodded and looked up at him from under impossibly long eyelashes, "Thank you."

She let him put her in the chair and she kept her eyes firmly locked on his face as he cleaned the blood and dirt from her scrape. He looked around for the waiter and found no one so he pulled the decorative handkerchief from his suit pocket and delicately wrapped her arm in it tying the makeshift bandage. "Your English is very good."

She didn't answer for a moment; this man who'd rushed to her assistance fascinated her. He was obviously American, young and very handsome. His features were strong and masculine but the crinkled lines near his eyes and lips told her that he smiled a lot as well. He was rather tan, as if he'd been outside quite a lot in this climate but the bronzed skin couldn't hide the scar near his left eye. It wasn't recent but it was still puckered enough that time hadn't worn it down yet. Just that one little flaw made him infinitely more attractive than he would be without it. "Oh, I'm a student. I travel a lot for my studies. It helps to know how to ask for things."

He chuckled as he finished tying off the handkerchief and sat back in his chair. "Good thinking. I'm Mike by the way. Mike Westen."

"Michael," she said rolling the name on her tongue as if she were savoring it like a fine wine. "I'm Raina Hesam."

"Just Mike, I'm not much on formality. Well it's a pleasure to meet you Raina." He leaned back in his chair and reached for his coffee, "Would like something to drink?"

The woman across the table shook her head and smiled, "I'm sorry, I'm late for my class." Then she stood up and wobbled for a moment before sitting back down heavily.

Mike's look of concern amused her slightly, "You might want to rethink that. Rest a while and have a drink with me. I promise I don't bite."